


Pineapple to My Pizza

by quincette



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Accidental Domesticity, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Covid-19 Universe, Doctor!Nicky, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Opposites Attract, Romance, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, Venice the city, and pineapple on everything, author loves hawaiian pizza, curator!joe, heated debate about pizza toppings, pandemic reality, quarantine buddies, toilet paper shortage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quincette/pseuds/quincette
Summary: "I saw canned pineapple and ready-bake pizza dough in your fridge."Joe's stance immediately changes. He crosses his arms, and his ever-present smile disappears, which is a rarity. "Are we going to have a problem?" he says. Clearly, he's been through this conversation with an Italian before.___Or modern AU, Love in Time of Lockdown Pandemic 2020 edition, no immortality where Nicolò di Genova, a struggling medical graduate in Milan, is trying to complete his residency when a deceased estranged uncle left him a house in Venice with an existing tenant with a year’s contract living on the top floor. He takes a weekend in the city to resolve the matter and most probably kick out the insufferable tenant so he can wash his hands off the property. But things get complicated.The year 2020 is supposed to be Yusuf al-Kaysani's year – an immigrant wunderkind chosen as the curator for Venice Architectural Biennale by his country. Then his cool Italian landlord died, and his painfully stoic Italian nephew who inherits his house tells him he's thinking of kicking him out (over pineapples?). Then the lockdown happened and they are forced to weather the pandemic together and everything goes belly up (or does it?).
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 278
Kudos: 312





	1. 28 February 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Year 2020 is almost over my friends, and I'm feeling blue. And I miss travelling. This is my love letter to Italy, and somewhat a reflection of how our lives change and adapt to the pandemic this year. Each chapter will cover different month.

Nicolò di Genova hates Venice. 

It is probably unfair to blame the hate on the city itself. Objectively, it is still one of the most distinctively stunning creations of mankind on earth, which has been proven to be its downfall. These days, it is irredeemably infested with lumbering cruise ships, uncaring tourists and greedy capitalists eager to profit off them while its disgruntled, increasingly marginalised locals have been too stewed in their righteous resentment to actually act like decent human beings.

Nico can’t decide if a visibly mellower Venice in late February is significantly better than his memory of Venetian summer. Maybe a little, since it’s almost March and the Carnevale was cancelled two days earlier because of the virus scare, though there are still plenty of tourists on the island taking advantage of the early off-season hotel rates; their unwieldy selfie sticks almost smacking him in the face a handful of times since he stepped off the train and took the ferry to the main island. Barely a few hours in and he is already itching for a train ride back to Milan. 

_“Well, you’re officially a Venetian landlord, now, Nicolinò, so I’d say your contempt is very in-character. You should terrorise your tenant next.”_

So said his sister Noemi. _A Venetian landlord_ , he grimaced. In any circumstances, inheriting a property is a blessing for a struggling medical graduate trying to complete his residency. But Nicolo doesn’t really know what to do with zio Pino’s house, which comes with a tenant with close to a year left in his contract. 

_“Kick the Arab out and sell the house. Didn’t you hate it so much?”_

_“He’s not an Arab, he’s a Tunisian Dutch.”_

_“Who cares? Kick him out and sell it. Some shady Russian hotelier will snap it, and you could make a mint and get more degrees or whatever it is that you need to do to become an actual doctor.”_

So said his brother Niceto – always looking for the easy way out. Nico had half a mind to do that, wash his hands of the property, pay off his student loan and probably get a specialist degree with the rest of the money. Thing is, if he’s completely honest with himself, he may come to hate Venice, but he doesn’t hate that house, not exactly. 

It is dark when he reaches Campo Bragora. He can see his zio’s house across the deserted plaza. Nico hasn’t been to the place in literally half his lifetime, but it looks exactly how it was in his memory. It is a charming four-storey home wedged between a trattoria and a souvenir shop. The footprint looks narrow from the street, but it extends the whole length of the block and has a sizeable walled garden with fruit trees, a brick oven and a canopied patio overgrown with grapevine – a perfect slice of domesticity in a location that is rapidly turning into an open-air museum. 

The fourth storey’s windows are lit – the floor where zio’s tenant currently lives. _Your tenant now_ , Nico corrects himself. He traces his memory of the place. The third and second floors were where zio worked, one a painting studio with a library and the other a sculpture workshop – Nico can’t remember which is which. The first floor was a multipurpose room that most days served as a parlour for entertaining zio’s social circles, or events like exhibitions. 

And the topmost floor was the heart of the home, where his zio lived. Lived – there’s a pang inside of him every time he thinks that zio Pino is no longer in this world. It had been so abrupt, and their estrangement meant he hadn’t received the news in time to book a flight from his work trip in Copenhagen to attend the wake. And leaving mere flowers on top of a freshly set plaque in his maternal family’s graveyard felt like an inadequate goodbye. He didn’t even cry. 

It also made the subsequent visit from zio’s lawyer in his childhood home in Genoa to tell him that zio had left Nico his home in Venice all the more jarring. It was surprising, sure, but it was also deeply unsettling. Like it had been a mission, a beginning of something instead of its end, instead of a parting gift. 

_“Of course he would leave his house to you, after all these years. I mean, you two have that – that bond…!”_

No one can be as cruel to you like your own family. Nico almost punched his brother for saying, _suggesting_ that. But instead, he went home to his modest flat in Milan, packed some clothes, and went to the Centrale to catch the earliest train to Venice, calling in to work to report a family emergency. It wasn't a lie, but it was reckless, and he paid for it by waiting almost a full day before he could get a ticket thanks to a last minute cancellation, there were more people fleeing the city, spooked by the coronavirus.

Nico couldn't really blame them. He hoped the government would announce something concrete to address it soon. He felt a little guilty himself for leaving the city, first to Genoa for the reading of zio's will, and now to Venice. But desperate times and all that, and it's Friday, he could spend the weekend figuring out his new inheritance, and be back at the mercy of Professoresa Ricci on Monday. 

And here he is now, staring at that window on the top floor. In three months’ time, the facade of the house will be blooming purple with wisteria. Now, it is barren, its dark green door and window frames look stark against the pale brick. And the planters on the balconies look abandoned – Nico hopes the geraniums roots are stored indoor instead of frozen to death in those pots. He feels irrationally annoyed at zio’s tenant already.

Yusuf al-Kaysani, said the documents the lawyer handed him. An artist, a Dutch by nationality, Tunisian by heritage, which Nico found out by googling his name. The appointed curator for Biennale Architettura 2020’s Netherland Pavilion, slated for opening in late May, which will run for six months. Google didn’t mention any relation with his zio, but Nico bets they knew each other, they shared the same profession after all. Nico wonders if he needs to speak English all the time to this man, he’s not fond of the language. It has always sat funny on his tongue.

The topmost level of the house was the main living quarter, comprising a cosy living room with a balcony overlooking the garden. The dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and the bedroom were arranged around it – it was comfortable for one person and can operate as an independent living quarter, probably why zio rented it out.

And how his tenant is probably sleeping in that bedroom facing him now. A bedroom where Nico discovered the thing that altered the course of his teenage life and created ongoing strife in his family. 

The clang of the bells of San Giovanni Church on his back brought him back to the present. _Right, on to business_. He marched down to knock on the door. 

***

Nicolò has decided that he hates this tenant. 

He’d been standing in the rapidly freezing plaza for twenty minutes, intermittently knocking – banging, even – on the door with no answers. He tries calling the cell number listed as the tenant’s contact number, but it goes straight to the mailbox. _Va bene_ , that explains why he didn’t reply or acknowledge (rude!) Nico’s text informing him of his arrival. 

In hindsight, Nico should have probably called when the reply didn’t come. Or had a good sense to ask the lawyer if the deed of the house came with keys, which he needs to actually access the damn house. It’s getting colder, his phone tells him it’s 4°C. He tightens the hood of his jacket. 

Nico looks around and finds nobody. It is true then that most residents have moved further and further outside the heart of the island. In olden days he probably could ask a neighbour to help, or perhaps some of them would have spare keys trusted on them by zio. Alas, no neighbours, only distant barking of the dogs; both the trattoria and the souvenir shop have closed for the day, so Nico scours his document for a landline, finds the number, dials in and hopes his zio didn’t have the sense to disconnect it in favour of owning a smartphone like a proper digital-age person. 

The number rings. And he can hear the rings from the outside. 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he mutters to himself. 

He tries again when nobody picks up the phone. And again. And again. And of course, his phone dies after, because he didn’t keep track of the battery. Nico can’t believe his luck; he would have laughed if he weren’t so cold.

He sits on the bench in the plaza, the shock of the cold metal ripping through his down jacket, literally freezing his ass. He contemplates scaling the garden wall from the back alley – perhaps the back door is unlocked. Even if someone mistakes him as a burglar, he can prove otherwise because he has the actual deed of the property. Or maybe he should throw gravels at the bedroom window like a lovesick fool hoping his crush will notice him. If he happens to break the glass, well - it’s his property. He laughs at the thought. 

Or, he can find an inn like a sensible person, pay the exorbitant price for a warm bed to avoid freezing to death, and come back in the morning to evict the tenant. Because oh yes, he’s going to evict this man. 

Nico was so busy imagining the ways his eviction scenarios could go, he didn’t hear the footsteps coming his way from the other direction. 

“Ciao.” 

Nico almost jumps. 

“Can I help you?” says the voice in perfect Italian. He is silhouetted against the light, Nico can only discern the man has curly hair. Meanwhile, the stranger can get a good look of his face because he is standing near the lamp post.

“You’re Nicky,” he says again before Nico can say anything. 

Nico doesn’t know what irritates him more: the cold, being locked out (of his own property), the unread text, the unanswered call, his dead phone, his dead uncle, this fucking stranger living in zio’s (his!) house calling him by a name from another lifetime. 

“Signor al-Kaysani?” he managed. 

“Please call me Joe,” he steps into the light and Nico gets to look at his face, this man he has only seen from internet photos. He looks somewhat different in real life. “I didn’t know you’d be coming today.”

“I texted,” says Nico, failing to convey his annoyance because his teeth chatter and his breath condensing in the air. 

“Oh, my apologies, I left my phone somewhere in the workshop, and I haven’t been back from Giardini since. You’re freezing – have you waited long?”

“Si.”

“Please,” he says, patting Nico’s back and leading him to the door. “Let’s get inside.” His gloved touch is warm, it’s the only reason Nico doesn’t bat it off.

Nico remembers the main door, a centuries-old solid wood arch to be rather temperamental to operate because of its weight and age. But Yusuf – Joe – prises it open easily even when he’s carrying a bulky backpack, like he owns the place. He ushers Nico in before closing the door behind him. 

It is pitch black inside. If this were a horror movie, Nico would immediately get killed because he’s an idiot who follows a suspicious stranger into a dark place.

“Hey Google, turn on the ground floor,” says Joe. His English has traces of British accent. It is unlikely that he can stop offending Nico anytime soon. 

Unlike the facade of the house, the ground floor doesn’t look exactly as Nico remembers it. 

For instance, the home is Google operated, as Joe has casually demonstrated, “Okay Google, make it warm,” he says, and there is a hum of a heater somewhere in the room. His smile is bright when he faces Nico. “It’ll get warmer in no time. My apologies again, I’d say I’d be a better host from now on, but I guess you are the host now.”

“Ah, yes… I suppose,” says Nico, his eyes roam the place. They are in the foyer, from which he can see the living and dining room, to the side he peeks at a kitchen that wasn’t there the last time he was in the house. He recognises the architectural shell, the red brick walls, the herringbone parquet and terrazzo flooring, and some of the old furniture. But the lighting is different, and there is a more contemporary air in the house, which he entirely blames on Joe. “I see it’s a smart home now.”

“It’s nothing fancy, just a few lighting, heating and ambient controls hooked to Google home. It helps,” Joe pauses, “it helped Pino, for, uh, housekeeping,” he smiles sheepishly. 

“Right,” says Nico, begrudgingly agrees that his zio would have agreed with Joe. Having taken stock of the space, he’s forced to look at Joe. His brown eyes are brighter in real life. Nico doesn’t know what else to say to him; they are strangers with a shared history with a dead person who owned the house they are in. There should be enough there to make small talks, but Nico never claims to be good at it. There will be many more awkward silences between them. 

But Joe, it seems, doesn’t have any trouble weathering awkward silences. “I’m sure you have many questions, Nicky.”

Nico winces, “It’s Nicolò,” he says flatly. They’re not friends, Joe doesn’t have the right to use that name. 

Joe is unfazed, “Of course, Nicolò.” He pronounces his name right the first time, and somehow it irks Nico even more because he expects him to butcher it. He really is tired. 

“You must be tired,” says Joe. “Pino’s room is over there, the bathroom is ensuite,” he points to a corridor, which Nico recognises as the way to the former guest room. “I’m sure you are aware that he lived on this floor and the sculpture workshop upstairs these past few years?” 

Nico is not aware of it. In fact, he is not aware of most things about his zio, he never heard updates from him ever since Italy changed its currency from lira to euro. He never got a chance to know him as an adult. 

“His knees couldn’t handle so much climbing anymore and that way he could rent out the top floor,” Joe continues, unaware that for some inexplicable reason, the more he talks, the more Nico just wants him and his ridiculously fluffy-looking curls and warm brown eyes and multilingual tongue and fingerless leather gloves and fancy art degrees to go away, pronto. 

Nico stews a little longer in his head that he only catches Joe’s: “I’m about to cook dinner upstairs. Eat with me?”

“Ah, no, thank you. I’ll manage,” he answers.

“You’re sure?” he asks, putting his massive backpack down and unzipping his coat. “I cook mean shakshouka, and you look like you could use some food.” 

“I,” Nico starts. _Stop. Go away._ “I need a moment.”

Joe must have heard the annoyance in his voice because he stops and nods. “Of course,” he says, crouching down to take off his shoes. His dark grey socks match his knitted pullover, and probably fits him just as tight, judging from how the sleeves hug his biceps. 

He stands up and slings his backpack. “The keys of the house are inside that drawer,” he indicates a dresser with a mirror not far from where they are. “I’ll be on my floor. Feel free to take anything from my fridge because I’ve raided the fresh ingredients from Pino’s. Also, feel free to use my kitchen because it’s superior to Pino’s pantry - the hob is a bit fussy.” With that, he clasps Nico’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nicolò. Your zio was a beautiful soul and he had a beautiful wake, he is sorely missed.”

Nico didn’t get to attend the wake, and at that moment, he hates Joe so much he can only manage a weak nod. 

***

Nico goes to the sculpture studio on the second floor first, not even bothering to store his bag in the bedroom. He plugs his phone charger on the nearest powerpoint and takes in the open space. 

For the most part, the space is a giant, exuberant creative mess just how he remembers it, filled with blocks of stone and timber, and various sketches and studies. But there are notable alteration. The second and third floor used to be completely separate, but now half of the third floor has been hacked off, creating a double height room lined with bookshelves. A metal spiral staircase connecting the two floors looks starkly contemporary next to the solid wood furniture inside the 17th-century architecture shell. 

A glass-encase study occupies what's left of the third floor. Nico could see throughly 21st-century workstation and computer screens from the second floor. The windows on the side of the house that towers over the souvenir shop next door have been enlarged, and Nico can image how the sun will filter in in daytime, providing his zio with ample natural light that he had always complained he didn't get enough. 

Some things are exactly like he remembers them; like the corner room with the ornate chaise longue where zio socialised with his fellow artist, or painted live models. Nico’s throat constricts at the thought of the unfinished works in the room, now abandoned and left forever incomplete.

Nico is not sure of what he is looking for exactly. He has questions, like Joe guessed, and probably will get answers much faster by asking Joe, who lived with zio for a bit, was with him in his final moments, and probably knew him longer than that. But some questions are too private to share, and Nico hopes that the house can provide clues to answer his _whys_ without involving a stranger. 

Photo albums are unlikely to give him the answer he is looking for but he makes a beeline to the shelves anyway. 

***

He knows it’s close to 11pm because his alarm blares, reminding him that on typical days, it’s time to haul his ass for the night shift at the hospital. Also, because his stomach growls. He emerges from the studio intending to search for food only to find a tray covered with a napkin in front of the door. 

_Heat in the microwave for one minute if you want it hot._ Says the handwritten note. The napkin reveals a plate of shakshouka, bright with two sunny egg yolks in a bed of stewed red paprika, and two pieces of toast. They were cold, but Nico doesn’t have the energy to care, so he sits on the floor and eats. He begrudgingly admits that the meal is good as his belly rumbles appreciatively. 

He thinks of Joe while he eats, and he wonders about his relationship with his zio. Were they friends, more than friends? Was it a big deal – they’re both artists after all? What was it like to have an adult to adult relationship with his zio? To have a conversation on equal ground and fully-formed intellects? Doctor Nicolò di Genova has never had the chance to converse with the illustrious artist, maestro Giuseppe Altieri, and now he never will. It’ll always be Nicky and Zio Pino for him, frozen in his memories. 

His eyes sting and he doesn’t like it, so he quickly wolfs down his food and brings the tray upstairs – might as well use it as an excuse to check out the top floor. 

***

The sliding door to the top floor is painted white and has an oval frosted glass cameo with floral design, just as he remembers it. The warmth of the parquet underneath his socks is also familiar. The ambient music is new because it comes from Google rather than a gramophone.

“Scusi,” he calls out. No answer. Joe must have turned in for the night. Nico breathes easier. 

It is mostly dark, baring the glow of some electronics. Nico makes his way to the kitchen, sliding the door open and turns on the light with his elbow. The sight was familiar – glossy white tiles, walnut cabinets. The bright red fridge and the stainless steel exhaust are new, so is the lingering smell of spice. 

There are dirty pans and dishes in the sink. Nico clicks his tongue – why can’t just people immediately wash after use and make life easier for everyone? This kind of procrastination is a sign of a slob. But Joe made him food (without him asking, mind you) so it’s only polite for him to wash Joe’s also. Nico might have done that without trying to minimise the clatter, but there is no telltale of Joe waking up from his sleep. 

It is when he’s drying the dishes that he notices the empty can of pineapple in the trash bin. Alarm sounding inside his head, he opens the bright red fridge, looking to confirm his suspicion. And – Santa Maria Madre di Dio, for the love of everything holy –there they are, more cans of pineapple chunks in pineapple juice, and ready-made pizza dough. 

How on earth can a civilised country trust a fan of the abominable Hawaiian “pizza” to be the arbitrator of their taste?

  
  


*** 

_Nicolinò, you’re going to Zio Pino’s house, aren’t you? Well, it’s your house now, I guess. Your phone is off, I’m worried, let me know as soon as you can if you’re alright? I hope you’re getting along with zio’s tenant. How is he?_

_Like pineapple to my pizza. I’m definitely kicking him out._

_***_

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venice Architecture Biennale is a once every two year big-deal event where countries around the world participate in this huge architecture exhibition in two locations in Venice: Arsenale (indoor) and Giardini (outdoor). Some countries lease the exhibition space for just the biennale while others have a permanent structure that they use every editions of the event. I've been there in 2018 and it was amazing. 
> 
> The house I've described is based on an actual Venetian home owned by painter Safet Zec. 
> 
> This fic is not sponsored by Google. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and give me a shout out when you enjoy this :)) and share your memorable moment from the pandemic that you’d think would suit these two. Some of the elements in this story borrow from my own 2020 diary.


	2. Leap Day 2020, AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe takes out a mug and hands it to Nico. “It’s cappuccino,” he says. 
> 
> “You reheat a cappuccino in a microwave?” Nico looks scandalised.
> 
> Joe scratches his beard. Ah, he forgets how religious most Italians are about food and drink rituals. “I’ve just committed a grave sin, haven’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, thanks so much for the amazing support for the first chapter. I didn't think I'd be getting so many reactions and I am humbled and thrilled by you all (and extremely encouraged too). 
> 
> So here's the second chapter. It's a bit fluff, it has cats and it ends with major angst.
> 
> \----
> 
> There's a superstition in Italy that a leap year and leap day itself is unlucky.  
> And Nicky is about to find out how.

Yusuf al-Kaysani, Joe for short, is most definitely not a morning person. 

An artist’s relatively flexible working hour may have been one of the reasons he chose the profession after all. 

But alas, he must learn to become one, seeing that he is currently leading an international team of artists for what will become his most important project yet, and most of them are scattered all over the world. This has resulted in a very narrow window of reasonable time everyone agreed on for virtual progress meetings. So Joe makes the sacrifice by waking up three hours earlier than he used to. 

He set three alarms on his phone the previous night, each spaced fifteen minutes away, just in case. He woke up the first time only to hit the snooze button (and didn’t move when the snooze time was up). He woke up the second time and actually managed to sit up, only to doze off in that position again. He jerked awake at the third alarm, panicking, because his subconscious just _knows_ that he missed the first two wake up calls. 

He drags himself across the living room, to the old school bathroom with its clawfoot bathtub, splashes some cold water on his face, and sets about brushing his teeth while he waits for his brain to fully wake up. “This is what you get for choosing _empire diaspora_ as exhibition theme, Yusuf,” he mumbles to his reflection in the mirror, he looks half dead. 

Feeling a little more human than a sleepy husk of a man, he shuffles to the kitchen, rummaging for his coffee mug when he notices that the sink is empty – scrubbed clean to be precise; no traces of the dirty dishes and pans he used to make his dinner (that he swore he’s going to wash once he was awake). The plates and mug he used to deliver Nico’s dinner are slotted nicely in the rack. He feels a little sheepish to reveal his tendency to procrastinate when it comes to housekeeping so soon, but he is also glad that Nico ate what he cooked. He briefly wonders what Pino would have said had he been around to introduce them. 

Loading the capsules into his coffee machine, he can’t shake the feeling that they have gotten off on the wrong foot. Well, totally his fault; he didn’t read his text, Nicolò was frozen in the cold waiting for him, and he used a familiar name that he clearly hasn’t had the right to use. 

_“It’s Nicolò.”_

Not a friendly one, is he? But Joe can forgive that; the man is probably having a confusing time, not to mention that he is also grieving. It dampens Joe’s excitement of finally meeting him a little. Well, never meet your idol, they say. Though perhaps, idol isn’t quite the word. A muse, probably, in an indirect way; a muse once removed. 

_“You’re Nicky.”_

Joe groans, of course he’s not pleased, what grown, true blue Italian man named Nicolò, a doctor even, goes by diminutive ‘Nicky’? His eyes, though, that indescribable colour at the intersection of green, grey and blue, they’re the same. They were the first thing Joe recognised and he couldn’t help fawning a little. _I owe you my PhD_ , was what he wanted to say. That probably would not be less confusing for the man. 

He has made two cups of cappuccino before he realises that he doesn’t need to because his landlord and breakfast buddy is not around anymore. He wonders if he will ever get used to the pang of loss. He wonders if Pino’s nephew takes his cappuccino the way Pino did, no cocoa powder, scalding hot, one sugar cube. 

Tiny paws scratching on the frosted glass of the window above the washing machine, accompanied by yowling, interrupt his train of thought. He slides it open, wincing when the noise gets louder. 

“Hey, Zitto,” he greets the cat that leaps inside. “ _Stai zitto, per favore_ ,” he says when the cat makes more noise, weaving itself around his legs, headbutting him with considerable force. “Yes, yes, I’ll fill your bowl in a moment.” The cat yowls again, Joe sighs, but at least he’s fully awake now. 

  
  


***

Generally, Nicolò does not sleep well in a strange bed. Adding to that, for some reason, this time he can’t breathe freely, there is a strange pressure on his chest and pins and needles on his arms. He stretches them out, only to bump into solid wood. 

Oh, right, he is not sleeping on an actual bed. He blindly gropes around, feeling the ornate frame of the chaise longue where he fell asleep the night before. He is in the studio, and the warmth on his skin tells him that it’s morning. It doesn’t explain the pressure on his chest, though. 

Until the said weight _purrs_. 

Nico jerks awake, limbs flailing. The weight dislodges from his chest. He scrambles on the chaise, rubbing the sleep off his eyes. 

His stare is met with a pair of blue eyes belonging to a Siamese cat, staring at him curiously from the floor. 

Nico slowly relaxes, sitting up straight. “Huh,” he says. “Hello, I guess. Good morning.”

The cat darts out of the door silently.

Well, Nico can’t blame it. That’s how he has always ended his one-night stands after all, by bolting out quietly. Karma’s a bitch.

He takes stock of his surroundings. It’s early, but the double height windows allow the room to soak up the shy morning sun. He is still wearing the clothes and socks he traveled in the night before. His overnight duffle bag sits forgotten in one corner. His phone on the other, still attached to its charger. Scattered around him are photo albums, in no particular order, showcasing years of Pino’s life, some Nico knows and some he doesn’t. 

There is a headache pressing at his temple and his throat feels scratchy. He planted his feet on the floor, puts his elbows on his knees and his hands on his head, trying to knead the tension away. 

He hears Joe’s voice upstairs drift from the open door. He is talking to someone, or rather, telling someone to shut up. _Dio, surely it is too early to be so loud?_ Just as the thought comes to him, he hears the door to the glass-encased office on the floor above him open. 

He peers up, the angle allows him to see Joe’s curly head, moving from the door to the desk. And then he gets a full view of Joe, in his pajama pants and a knitted top that Nico is sure at least a size too small for his frame, standing in front of the glass office. He was wearing a headset and carrying a laptop and a coffee mug. The enclosed space seems to muffle the noise a little bit. 

Nico is still staring when Joe scans the workshop below the glass office and catches his eyes. By then it’s too late to pretend otherwise so Nico keeps the eye contact. Joe is still speaking on his headset, but he gives Nico a little wave, then makes a gesture with his hand. Nico contemplates pretending not to see it and leaving silently just like the cat earlier, but it’s impossible because Joe’s gesture is pretty obnoxious about inviting him upstairs, his whole arm and shoulder move. Also he mouths silently, ‘Come up.’

So Nico climbs the spiral staircase, feeling awkward, like Joe owns the place and he is the stranger in the house and not the other way around. This part of the house feels unfamiliar to him, the spatial experience – the stairs, the angle, the glass office, the enlarged windows – feels foreign. Not in the least foreign is the man in front of him now. 

It should have been Zio Pino. Had it been his zio, Nico would have smiled, and he would have complimented the refurbished studio and workshop. As it is he tries his best not to scowl at Joe. That is, until he sees the cat rubbing on Joe’s calves. _Traitor_ , Nico thinks, irrationally. 

Nico crosses the short walkway between the top of the staircase to the door of the glass office, taking in the office set up. The space is snug, populated mostly by two desks and chairs and a larger conference table with two long benches, one wall is completely covered by shelves and drawers. He opens the glass door to the long yowling of the cat, Joe’s rapid fire British English, the whir of an air purifier in one corner, and the faint smell of lemongrass. 

Nico considers slamming the door closed again when Joe looks at him and grins while listening to whoever is speaking to him at the other end of the line. He makes a sweeping gesture for Nico to sit on one of the benches. Nico obliges simply because he needs a moment to process all the assault to his senses. Joe puts his palm flat, ‘Wait, please,’ he mouths. The cat yowls again and Joe picks it up, and deposits himself on the other bench with the cat on his lap. He scratches its head, and lets it nibble on his finger, most likely to shut it up. 

Nico crosses his arms and fixes an unimpressed stare to Joe’s direction. ‘One minute, sorry’ he mouths. Nico huffs and rolls his eyes.

He almost falls off the bench when something soft brushes his legs. He looks down in alarm to find a familiar pair of blue eyes staring at him from under the long table. He does a double take of the cat in Joe’s lap, then stares at the one currently sitting between his legs. Oh, they’re twins. And Siamese. It feels like a joke zio would have made. 

“What’s your deal, hm?” he mumbles to the cat below the table. It blinks and jumps on the bench, and just sits next to Nico, its tails flicking to tickle his hand. Joe is still talking and entertaining his noisy cat. 

Hesitantly, Nico puts his hand on top of the silent cat’s head and he could have sworn that cats are liquid when somehow it manages to weasel its way onto his lap in one fluid motion. Then it has the audacity to purr. “You have boundary issues, my friend,” Nico mutters under his breath. 

Across the table, Joe perks up, and says, “Great, thanks Gita, you’re a lifesaver, see you on Zoom with the others shortly.” He presses a button on his headset and takes it off. 

“Good morning,” he says to Nico. The cat on his lap answers with a yowl.

“I see you’ve met your cousins.” 

Nico stares at him dumbly. 

“Uh, I mean, the cats,” he says when the seconds stretch for too long. “They’re Pino’s.”

“Oh,” Nico says, more noise than word. The cat on his lap purrs louder for some reason. 

“That’s Scialla,” says Joe. “She likes you.”

The cat on Joe’s lap yowls. 

“And this noisy guy is Zitto,” he says, and the cat paws at his beard. “Named after the verb, not the adjective, as you can hear.”

Zio’s cats. His cats, now, he supposed. Or are they Joe’s? Nico can’t remember if cats were mentioned anywhere in zio’s will. Nico should ask Joe. But he couldn’t find the words. 

“Coffee?” Joe says, by way of filling the silence. “I have a few virtual meetings planned today so I’ll be chained to my laptop, but I need to feed these cats first otherwise they won’t leave me in peace,” he adds before Nico can decline. “Come with me,” he says, like has any right to be so friendly, getting up from his bench and making his way out of the office. 

Forgotten from sleep, Nico’s annoyance at how at home Joe is in zio’s (his!) house comes back with a vengeance. Seemingly sensing this, Scialla slips down from his lap, landing silently on the floor and padding after Joe. But she stops at the door and turns to stare at Nico, like she expects him to follow suit.

_Alright, maybe you’re not a traitor_ , Nico thinks, and gets up to follow the cat. 

Nico walks into Joe’s kitchen as the microwave beeps. Zitto is munching dry food in a bowl in one corner; Scialla pads over to join him.

Joe takes out a mug and hands it to Nico. “It’s cappuccino,” he says. 

Nico takes the mug, looking scandalised. “You reheat a cappuccino in a microwave?” 

Joe scratches his beard. Ah, he forgets how religious most Italians are about food and drink rituals. “I’ve just committed a grave sin, haven’t I?”

“Si.” Nico thinks microwaves are a crime against anything edible.

“It’s –,” Joe starts. “You don’t have to drink it. I made too much this morning. I kept forgetting I don’t need to make some for Pino anymore. He didn’t mind it,” he trails off. “The capsules are in that box behind you if you’d like to use the machine for a fresh one.” 

It’s too much information for Nico to process in one go so he is focusing on the fact that Joe only makes coffee using that damnable capsule – God helps this man, he is truly a slob – rather than the fact that Joe makes his zio’s morning coffee, and that his zio doesn’t mind reheated, capsule-brewed horrible coffee. And he is holding a mug of coffee just how his zio used to do in the mornings had he still been with them.

He takes a sip. It’s less horrible that he thought it would be, but he’s not going to tell Joe that. 

A sound of an alarm blares from Joe’s pocket. He fishes out his phone. “That’s my cue for my next meeting. Anyways, the cats will ignore you until they’re hungry again. Feel free to cook anything in the fridge. I’ll be done by lunch, if you’d like to–,” he stops, searching for a word, “–catch up,” he decides, though maybe not an accurate verb since they’re practically strangers, but what the hell, they will only get to know each other better. 

“Alright,” says Nico. And Joe is pleased to see him continue to drink from the mug. 

“Right,” Joe smiles. “I’ll be in the office.”

Nico nods.

It is quiet after Joe went downstairs. Nico sips Joe’s reheated cappuccino slowly, the liquid warmth is comforting. And honestly, he’s not a coffee snob at all. He’ll take whatever coffee available for the staff at the hospital, as long as it gives him the caffeine he needs. His standard is pretty low, though he has never used a microwave to reheat his coffee before – he’ll just drink it cold. He’s not going to tell Joe this though. He likes playing the asshole Italian coffee snob.

Now when it comes to food though. Nico shudders at the thought of pineapple chunks on pizza, which is probably what Joe is going to make at some point based on the content of his fridge. 

Nico is distracted from his thoughts by the crunch of cat food. Zitto is noisy even when he is eating. Scialla, by contrast, has already done, and is now staring at him again, inquisitively. Nico finds that he doesn’t mind it. 

Zio never had pets back when little Nicky spent his summers in this house. But they did use to feed the neighbourhood cats together. There were many of them. But they have been disappearing from the island in recent years, much like the local Venetian residents themselves.

Nico wonders what a typical day in the house with his zio and Joe, and the Siamese twins, was like. He wonders if they were a couple, or romantically linked in some ways. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched. They’re both attractive, and their social circles must have overlapped. And what’s a three-plus decades of age difference between the artistic types anyway?

His headache is not getting any better. He probably needs to eat soon. A shower might also help. Nico is reluctant to go downstairs to actually use his zio’s private rooms – the last rooms he lived in – but he has to face it sooner or later. 

So he swipes a banana from the fruit bowl and heads downstairs. The narrow main staircase is colder than the apartment and the studio. It makes him sneeze and sniffles as he chews his banana. He stops by the studio to take his bag and checks his phone. 

He freezes. Twenty one missed calls. Sixteen from the hospital. Five from Celeste. 

He dials Celeste first. 

“Nico, where the hell are you?” she answers his call tersely. 

“I had to go to Venice, family emergency,” says Nico. “Celeste, what’s wrong? I got so many missed calls from the hospital.”

“It’s Professoresa Ricci,” she says, half choked. “She’s on respirator, Nico. It was so fast.”

“Celeste,” he chokes, “What…?”

“She thought she just caught a cold, Nico. She did get tested a few days ago and she did everything according to protocol, and her rapid test was non reactive but the PCR result came yesterday and it was positive. Nico, it was so fast…”

“Who’s handling her?” 

“Storti and Amendola,” she exhales noisily. “So she’s in good hands, Nico. But listen. You were with her the week before that Copenhagen conference, weren’t you? Before you went to Genoa?”

Nico’s blood turns to ice. 

“Nico, listen, wherever you are, you need to self isolate, okay? Fourteen days, Nico, pronto. Even if you’re feeling fine –”

Nico hasn’t been feeling fine since he was back in Genoa. Nico is an idiot who has been stewing in his own fucking angst to think that what he has been feeling was not just grief. Nico is an idiot who has been too selfish and self-absorbed to answer calls from the hospital. 

“– and you need to inform your family too, Nico, everyone you were in direct contact with the past week –”

He leans on the door and slowly slides down to sit on the floor. He feels he might faint. He didn’t think he has fever but his hands and feet are cold and his face feels hot and he doesn’t know if it’s the stress of if he has caught that fucking virus. 

Nicolò di Genova is a colossal fucking idiot. 

***

The calls to Noemi and Niceto went about as well as he predicted. Only Noemi took his words seriously, she even assured him that it wasn’t his fault (it’s totally Nico’s fault), and promised him that she and Aureliano and their kids will self isolate for two weeks. Niceto laughed heartily because he’s an even bigger idiot than Nico and said that no “China Virus” (racist asshole) could ever get the best of him. He only agreed to self-isolate when Nico threatened to cut off his monthly allowance. 

In hindsight, Nico is immensely grateful that he didn’t get to see his mamma and papa when he was in Genoa, that they each had been too busy with their respective new families to see their forgotten wayward son who couldn’t make it home in time to say goodbye to an exiled uncle one last time before burial. Nico is glad to spare them the possible complications. Though he might have infected a lot of people in four fucking cities across two countries. 

Nico didn’t cry in Copenhagen when he heard the news that zio had died. He didn’t cry in Genoa when he put flowers on his grave. He didn’t cry in his family home when his mamma and papa didn’t bother to come to the reading of zio’s last will. He didn’t cry when he saw all the photo albums in this house he has inherited, a house he most definitely doesn’t deserve. 

He cries now. 

***

By the time his tears dry, his headache is way worse. And his nose is blocked. _Real smart, Nico._ Now not only he can’t tell if he has a fever, he also can’t tell if he’s lost his sense of smell or if it’s just the fucking mucus. 

But the only way is through, to keep moving. Put those emotions in a box somewhere and lock it for now. Isn’t he always good at compartmentalising? So Nico takes a deep breath from his mouth, and another, and another, and another, until his head cleared a little and he has enough bandwidth to start planning, take stock of everything and think about how his living arrangement with Joe will work. 

Oh, Joe. Fuck. 

He tried to argue with himself. He’s just known Joe for less than 24 hours, they didn’t have direct, skin-to-skin contact, they slept on different floors of the house. Maybe he can rule out possible infection. Maybe he can ask Joe to get a safe accommodation somewhere, and end his contract early. 

_Idiot,_ says another part of his brain. _You sat in that fucking glass office and drank coffee in that snug kitchen. You’ve breathed each other’s air._

Right, and he thought he’s going to solve this inheritance issue over the weekend. 

Now, how do you tell your tenant, who was probably your uncle’s boytoy, that you might have infected him with a novel virus? That you’ll be stuck together for at least two weeks? That you need to work on a buddy system to make sure they survive the two weeks, in the event that either or both of them contract the virus. 

Nico laughs because he is too exhausted to cry. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll get better, I promise!  
> Next chapter will be snippets of their life in March. If you have a specific events happening in our world in March that you think would be great for the story, chime in! I'm always happy to bounce idea and I will definitely credit you :D  
> Zitto and Scialla are based on the twin Siamese cats Salt and Pepper on Instagram @saltpeppersiamesetwins – go check them out, they're mega cute!
> 
> I have this bad habit of posting as soon as I've done writing a chapter only to find out errors and edited after cause I just don't have the patience. I have gone back and tweaked the first chapter a bit to give more context and description of the house of you'd like a refresher. 
> 
> I'm in Tumblr and TOG discord under the same nickname if you'd like to say hi!  
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed this and make my day! all my love for reading :D :D :D


	3. Leap Day 2020, PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How are we going to do this self-isolation thing? How does it work?"
> 
> "Ah," Nico says, and rubs his face again. "Well, you should stay on your floor and I in mine. I may need to access the library so we should discuss our timing on this floor. But I don't think I will need to go to the office or the top floor. We keep this up for two weeks and hope for the best."
> 
> "Wait," Joe says, standing up from his chair. "Why are we quarantining from each other? Technically we are one household now, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd be able to move to March part of their adventure but oops. Leap day won't let me go, so here is the second half of they second day knowing each other. Enjoy!

Joe marvels at how many things can happen in 48 hours. 

On Thursday, 27 February, the Venice Architecture Biennale 2020 held its first press conference, attended by representatives of 114 invited participants and 46 country pavilions, and hundreds of journalists from all over the world. The Biennale President announced proudly how the exhibition has an equal ratio of men and women, and that there is increased representation from Africa, Latin America and Asia, which made Yusuf all the more excited. He himself, after all, is a son of an immigrant, and here he was, trusted as the curator to his white European country. His appointment had not come about without controversy, but it was ultimately and critically accepted as a bold and forward move. And it is shaping up to be the most diverse and exciting edition of Biennale yet. 

Then things went sideways. 

In the same afternoon, the Italian government decided to ban all flights to and from China, thanks to the spread of the novel coronavirus that has landed in Italian shores and infected a few major cities. The famous Carnevale had been cancelled early, and the number of tourists curbed a few days before, but evidently, the efforts weren't enough. Singling out the most populated country on earth, though, would have its own repercussions. 

Friday, 28 February, saw the China Pavilion curatorial team packing up and leaving the country, thanks to the mounting pressure from the local government in provinces heeding their antsy residents. The Biennale's curatorial team resigned to their fate but full of hope that things could be normal in May, and somehow the exhibition would commence. There were calls and questions to also ban all visitors from Asia altogether; the sentiment against anyone vaguely Asian-looking was palpable, and many of Joe's Asian colleagues reported harassments attributed to the virus scare. 

Joe mostly spent the day making rounds in the exhibition ground, checking the progress of his own pavilion, and the air just _changed_. It felt somewhat foreboding. He also checked on a few other country pavilions whose curatorial teams he's friendly with, offering them support where he could. He didn't wear a mask, but plenty of others did. He told himself he ought to start wearing it, and he wondered if come May, they would all be required to wear them. 

Before he realised it, it was sundown. He made his way back home, stopping by the grocery store to pick up some masks and hand sanitiser. The first four stores he went to were sold out of them. He got some in his fifth store only because the owner, a kind lady who had made his acquaintance during his sporadic visits to the city the years before and his recent residency at artist Giuseppe Altieri's place, had squirrelled some. "I was saving them for Pino, you can have them," she had said. He thanked her, his steps felt heavy knowing that he wouldn't have anyone to talk to about it at home that day. 

But then, there he was, Nicolò, his new landlord, a stranger, but also not quite, standing in front of the house he newly inherited, freezing his ass off because Joe had left his phone on his desk at the glass office on the third floor, and missed his messages. Their first meeting wasn't ideal, but he's confident they'll get along. The cats helped thaw the ice that morning. And he has decided he'll cook (again) for him, determined to get on his good graces. He just needed to get some virtual meetings out of the way first. 

The series of morning meetings on 29 February started off alright, promising even. There were delays in some of the production and shipments of parts and artworks from his collaborators, for which he has allocated enough buffer time. 

Up until 9am, he was sure the production of the Netherland Pavilion for Venice Architecture Biennale 2020 would be completed on time. Now it's 11:15am, he's not confident the Biennale will commence at all. 

He concluded his internal team meetings at 10:45am just in time to join the virtual meeting between all country pavilion curators. The Biennale's Festival Director, renowned Greek architect Andromache Sarkis, called for an emergency virtual town hall meeting just the night before. And a mandatory meeting in such short notice in the face of a budding health crisis is never a good sign. 

Andromache – Andy to Joe, as they knew each other from several exhibitions during their careers – doesn't outright say it. Still, it is obvious that the Biennale stakeholders are considering their options in actually opening the exhibition. They are considering the effect of the virus on travel, she says. The situation has seemingly escalated rapidly from a distant flu outbreak in China to a near hysteria that has seen several infected areas locked down. 

Naturally, the Q&A session at the end of the announcement descends into chaos. And it stretches on past lunchtime. 

Joe rips off his headset in frustration at the end of it. He would need to strategise, plan ahead. But nothing is certain yet. He'll just have to wait and see before making any rash or unnecessary decision. _Anno bisesto, anno funesto,_ Pino told him of the Italian proverb earlier that year – leap year, doomed year – which Joe laughed off. Perhaps, there's something to that superstition after all, but he refuses to go there. He will have to brace it and wait.

It is a little over 2pm when his phone rings. The screen flashes his new landlord's name. Joe frowns and picks up. 

"Joe?" Nico’s voice is hesitant. 

"Si," Joe says. "Nicolò? Why are you calling me? Aren't you still in the house?"

"Yes, I –" he clears his throat, "I'm on the second floor, you should be able to see me if you turn around."

Joe swivels his office chair. And sure enough, Nicolò is there, in the studio below, sitting on Pino's chaise longue, hallowed by the midday winter sun, the window paints stripes of shadow on him. He is looking at him. Joe gave him a little wave like he did earlier that morning. 

Nico returns the gesture half-heartedly, then ruffling his hair, trying to work out on where to begin.

"What's up?" prompts Joe, somewhat sensing that the day is about to throw another wrench into his plan. 

Nico exhales and drops the eye contact in favour of looking at the bookshelves next to the spiral staircase. "Did you know that I'm a medical graduate?"

"A doctor, yes?"

"No, not yet anyway. I am completing my post-grad residency in Milan soon. Anyway I had this trip with my supervisor for a conference in Copenhagen last week and couldn't get a flight back –"

_So that's why he missed Pino's wake_ , Joe notes, wondering where this is going. 

"– so, my supervisor, she's tested positive for Covid-19."

"Oh," says Joe. "I’m sorry to hear that. That's terrible." 

"Yeah, um, yeah," says Nico, his voice cracking. 

"Is she okay?" 

Joe sees Nico pulling his hair and hears him clearing his throat before continuing, "She's in good hands." Nico's hand moves to cover his face, rubbing furiously, the sound carries over the phone, before continuing, "So, since I've been in contact with her during what supposed to be the virus' incubation period, so listen, Joe–"

Joe notes that it is only the second time Nico calls him by his name. He doesn't like how both times sounded.

"– I need to self isolate for two weeks to clear myself of the virus."

Joe forgets to breathe. Nico looks up to stare at him again. Joe can't see clearly from a distance, but his eyes look puffy. 

"And Joe–"

Third time Nico uses his name, and Joe still does not like how it sounds.

"I've been in contact with you. You need to isolate too."

Joe goes still for a moment before managing a curt "Right."

"I apologise," Nico says, covering his eyes and rubbing furiously. His eyes sting and feel dry and itchy. "I shouldn't have come. But I did. So, we need to figure this out."

"Nicolò, we've only talked face to face so briefly. I'm sure I'll be fine." Joe has absolutely no reason to be sure, actually. But they did only exchange words briefly both times, last night and that morning, surely it can't be that bad?

"Joe, I am the one with a medical degree here, you listen to me." It comes out harsher than Nico intended, but he is so fucking tired his filter is good as gone. 

Joe winces. "Alright," he says, still processing the information. He sees Nico massaging his temple. "Are you alright, Nicolò?"

"I'm coming down with something," says Nico. "I hope it's just a common cold."

Joe's heart drops. It's his fault after all that Nico was left outside to soak on the cold last night. 

"Shit. Do you need to go to the hospital?" Because Joe will be a responsible person and somehow arrange that for him. 

Nico shakes his head. "No, it's no use going to the hospital at this point. They don't have the means to test me yet. Not in Venice, at least, I made some calls to check. Maybe in Padua because they have death and confirmed cases there… but, no. I don't have a fever, I think. It is my professional opinion that I should wait and see, monitor myself."

"I see," says Joe. "What can I do?"

"Monitor yourself," says Nico. "Stay away from me."

"No, I mean," Joe sucks a deep breath. "Anything I can do for you?"

_Go away. Give me back my zio_ , the thought bubbles up inside Nico's head, but he instead: "Where does – did – my uncle put his first aid kit?"

"Inside the drawer where you got your keys."

"Is the thermometer digital?"

"Yes, it's very accurate."

"Do you have your own thermometer?"

"No, I don't." Joe wonders if this is how Nico treats his patients, with a sort of detached coolness and a dash of condescension. 

"You should get one for yourself."

"Am I allowed to go outside to buy stuff?"

"Do you have a fever?"

"No." Joe hears Nico exhale through his mouth.

"Loss of sense of smell? Runny or blocked nose? Sore throat? Cough?"

"None of those," says Joe, he smelled the coffee fine that morning, and his head is clear. 

"I would not rule out the possibility that you are asymptomatic. But you can go outside and get what you need. Wear a mask, please, and under no circumstances you are to remove it. And go straight back home."

"Alright."

"Any questions?"

"How are we going to do this self-isolation thing? How does it work?"

"Ah," Nico says, and rubs his face again. "Well, you should stay on your floor and I in mine. I may need to access the library so we should discuss our timing on this floor. But I don't think I will need to go to the office or the top floor. We keep this up for two weeks and hope for the best."

"Wait," Joe says, standing up from his chair. "Why are we quarantining from each other? Technically we are one household now, right?"

Nico's gaze turns sharper, and when he answers, he gesticulates with the hand that's not holding his phone to his ear. "Joe. I have a sore throat and a massive headache. I can't tell if I've lost my sense of smell because my nose is blocked. I spent a lot of time with a known Covid-19 patient who is currently hooked to a respirator fighting for her life. For all I fucking now, I have it too, Joe. So si, _yes_ , we are isolating from each other because we've spent some time in a closed quarter this morning and I could have infected you." He exhaled noisily when he finished. 

Joe decides that he doesn't like how his name sounds on Nico's tongue. He takes a moment to reply, "Alright, but since I feel fine now, I am allowed to go out to buy groceries?"

"Yes, wear a mask. Don't dawdle, go straight home," Nico bites, how many time must he repeat this? 

"Am I allowed to go to Giardi–"

" _No_. Joe," Nico hisses, cutting him off. Joe's name rapidly turns into a convenient syllable to express his contempt, and Nico hopes Joe can _hear_ it as such. "By rights, you're not allowed to go _anywhere_ , or contact _anyone_ – that's the definition of quarantine," he gesticulates wildly, punctuating his words with his hand. "So no, Joe, you are not _allowed_ to go to Giardini to infect your Biennale buddies because that would be an international catastrophe. But I will allow a grocery run because you don't have the symptoms and you do need supplies and your own damn thermometer!"

Joe lets silence take over, feeling chastised and not sure how to react to it. It dawns on him that he'll lose two weeks of precious on-site work. All of that might be for nothing if it turns out that Nico has simply caught a cold. Not that he wants Nico to actually catch the virus. He prays he only has a cold, in which case that is totally Joe's fault for leaving Nico out in the cold last night.

 _Anno_ fucking _funeto_. 

When Nico speaks again, he sounds deflated, "So, again, if you're going out to pick up an aid kit and thermometer and groceries, be quick and safe about it and make sure your supplies last for two weeks."

Joe swallows the words of protest sitting at the tip of his tongue. Nico is the doctor, he reminds himself, he must have dealt with this for weeks already. His fatigue mirrors Joe's usual fatigue at the last few days before an exhibition that's been planned for months. Only Joe's fatigue usually ends with a celebration. Joe doesn't know how Nico's will end.

"Alright," he says, willing his voice to go softer. 

Nico answers with a sigh, his broad shoulders slumping. "Grazie," he manages, also considerably softer. 

Joe gives it a few seconds before braving, "What can I get you?"

Nico looks surprised. "Come again?"

"You can't whip a decent meal using only what you have now in Pino's pantry, let alone feed yourself for two weeks," Joe points out. Being reasonable, being _nice_ , is always more disarming. "I doubt I have enough to feed both of us for two weeks with only what I have in my pantry right now–"

Nico remembers the canned pineapple and shudders.

"– so what can I get you from Coop? Give me a list."

Nico looks lost for a bit before closing his eyes and mumbles, "I'll text you."

Joe makes sure to read the text. 

***

What's the deal with this Joe person? Nico can't really tell. He's nice, too nice, almost. Probably because Nico is his landlord now and he doesn't want to get kicked out, so it makes sense to butter him up, he supposes. Cause that was what Nico intended to do, wasn't it? Kicking him out? Washing his hands off zio Pino' inheritance? Quick and dirty, over the weekend. But for the fucking virus. 

Left alone in the house while Joe makes the grocery run, Nico feels the full force of various aches in his bodies. He needs to eat, but a shower seems more pressing because he hasn't taken one since Genoa and he's been to three cities in the last 48 hours, and even though it's winter, he must be _ripe_. 

He trudges downstairs, rummaging for the first aid kit in the hallway dresser, takes some aspirin, and heads to zio – his – bedroom, trying not to think that it's probably where his zio died. 

_"He died in his sleep, Nicolino. It's very peaceful, I was told."_

The room was bare and simple. Queen-size bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe, a bookcase that is small for zio's standard, and bedside tables – all in white painted wood that's not at all zio' style. Because that room was originally the guest room. Nico unceremoniously flings his backpack on to the bed and opens the wardrobe, looking for towels. 

He doesn't recognise the clothes inside the wardrobe. He thought he would find some familiar, but of course, not many people keep the clothes they wore twenty years ago inside their closet. He swallows his disappointment and grabs a folded towel on one of the high shelves. 

The water pressure in the shower is not the best, but it is mercifully hot. Nico lets the burn of the water soothe his aching muscle and centre his thought. He scrubs his skin pink, washes his hair and massages his temple. 

When he steps out to inspect his zio's kitchen, wearing a fresh shirt and loose pants, hair drying out and skin tingling from the heat, he feels a little better; his headache a little lighter. 

Joe was right. There is nothing worth cooking in the pantry, only some dried herbs, pickles and candied fruits that don't make a coherent meal on their own. Nico will have to wait for Joe's groceries, as Joe's apartment is a no-go zone for him. 

There is tea, though, and it's zio's favourite; hibiscus tea that he found to be too sour when he was a child. Nico has grown to like the tea in his adulthood by sheer nostalgia. So he goes about finding the kettle to boil some water. There is no electric kettle, so he settles with zio's old school whistling kettle. 

Joe was right. The hob is fussy. It takes Nico many tries to finally be able to have a fire. He drags a stool and sits leaning on the kitchen's wall, staring at the kettle on the stove, its blue fire flickering. The kitchen was partially underground, as the house sits on sloping land, its front has a lower elevation than its rear. 

The back garden's elevation sits between the first and second floor and has access from both via stairs. This has resulted in a kitchen that's a bit gloomy even with strips of windows high up on its wall. Nico can see skeletons of trees in the garden and the overcast sky beyond, all framed by the glossy tiles of the kitchen wall. The tiles are new to Nico, blue and white with kitschy illustrations of lemons and cherries. 

It's getting darker. He should probably turn on the lights, but he can't be bothered to move and find the switch. Does the house even still have manual switches? Last night, it was Joe's voice command via Google that powered the house. Nico feels somewhat annoyed at that. He makes a mental note to have his voice as the registered authority of the house. 

He jumps on his stool when something soft brushes his legs. 

"You," when he looks down to find those inquisitive blue eyes. "Stop sneaking up on me," he admonishes the silent cat. But he pets her anyway. "Scialla, hm?" he says, and the cat purrs and climbs onto his lap. He allows her. She's warm, and the purr makes his headache feel better somehow. 

***

Joe is used to getting unwarranted dirty looks from strangers, a consequence of living in white men's world when one is not a white man. He has learned how to ignore it, and how to handle it should things escalate. It's novel that he is getting these looks now not because of his beard or complexion, but because of his mask. Or maybe a combination of both, which must be a perfect nightmare for some people. 

Thankfully, it can be ignored. 

Because, see, not only Nico texted him quite a long grocery list, he also gave him an official doctor's prescription, to boot, which he left on the dresser by the door. The list contains mostly dried food, but also toiletries, disinfectant and cleaning supplies that he needs to track down the aisles of the supermarket. It is packed. The lines to the cashiers are long, and it is dark by the time Joe manages to get out and start making his way to the pharmacy to get the prescription. 

The pharmacist raises his eyebrows, reading Nico's shorthand (which Joe can't even begin to decipher), but rings his purchase with no comments. 

He is on his way back when he hears a commotion in a corner. He would have ignored it had he not sort of recognising the taunting as racial harassment. And there is no scenario where Joe wouldn't want to interrupt such a horrible thing. 

He rounds the corner to find some teenagers harassing a masked woman, an Asian, by the look of her hair and eyes. They are shoving her and making moves to grab her mask. The woman looks more annoyed than distressed and dodges them expertly while carrying just as many grocery bags as Joe. But there are three of them and only one of her, and they are all taller than her. 

"Hey!" he shouts across the street. When the teenagers startle and stop to look at him, he does his best to stomp towards their direction as threateningly as possible, which probably would have been more effective without his grocery bags. Joe is aware that his bulky frame can look really menacing if he wants to, and he may have taken advantage of that once or twice in the past in the hopes that his opponent chickens out. 

This time he doesn't need to do that though, because, taking advantage of their momentary distraction, the woman puts her bags on the ground and, in a rapid succession: knees one punk in the groin, smacks one in the nose with the flat of her palm, and simply grabs the last one's ear and twists it using her full body weight. When the last punk yells and flails, she uses the momentum to squarely kick him in the butt. 

When Joe reaches them, the punks have scampered away, spitting more profanities because that is all they can do. 

Joe stops near the woman, mindful of the distance. 

"Are you alright?" he asks her in English, a bit dazed and very impressed. 

"Yes," she says. And Joe does recognise her. 

"You're from the Vietnam Pavilion team," he says. "Dr Tran."

She narrows her eyes: "I'm sorry, you are?"

"Joe al-Kaysani, from the Netherland Pavilion. Andy introduced us at the press conference."

"Oh, of course" she says. "Please call me Quynh. I'm sorry I didn't recognise you. You have a good sense by wearing a mask."

"Yeah. I'm sorry that happened to you. Do you need help? You should report them."

"I won’t bother,” Quynh shakes her head. “I knew something like this would happen to me the moment they told the Chinese team to get out of the country," she sighs. "Good thing I learned some self-defence, huh?" She picks up her grocery bags. "You look like you have your hands full." 

Joe couldn't see, but he thinks she's smiling behind her mask. 

"Yeah," says Joe, lifting his bags as he tries to shrug, suddenly remembering that he isn't supposed to dawdle. "Some supplies. Social distancing and all."

Quynh hums, "Yeah, I just–" she starts, "I just hope things will be resolved before May, but… Andy is still fielding questions from that town hall meeting this morning. It doesn't look promising, does it?" 

Joe has to agree. "No, it doesn't."

"It sucks," she says. 

They commiserate in silence for a few seconds before Quynh tilts her head, "I'd best go my way, I promised to cook Andy some dinner. I'll see you around?"

_Not in two weeks_ , Joe thinks. "Sure, see you around."

"Thanks for distracting them, earlier," she says, walking in another direction. 

Joe stands there for a few minutes. Feeling like he has just seen a crack in a glass house and knowing it'll come crashing down any minute, but helpless to do anything. He shakes it off and walks home. 

***

Opening the ancient door to Pino's place with so many grocery bags in tow is not easy. After Joe manages to wrestle it open, he shoulders inside only to hear alarming noises. 

The cats, both of them, are yowling, they sound distressed. And when Scialla, the quietest cat Joe has ever known, is meowing like that, it's never something good. And there is a high-pitched whistling coming from the kitchen. 

He puts his grocery bags on the floor, commands Google to turn on the light and stalks to the kitchen. 

The first thing he sees is the kettle on the stove, which clearly has been whistling for a while, judging by its bubbling and hissing content, which has spilled over the fire. Joe turns off the gas, and moves the practically melting pot to the sink. 

The cats weave their way around his feet, still making distressed noises. 

“ _Zitto, Scialla, stai zitto per favore_ ,” he pleads with them. 

He wonders where Nico is, only to turn around and find him slumping against the wall, an overturned plastic stool next to him. 

Heart in his throat, Joe kneels to check on him. Nico looks like he is sleeping, but the last time Joe thought someone was sleeping, he had found him dead, so Joe doesn't take a chance. He takes Nico's hand, and his heart gives a relieved thud once he realises that Nico is, praise al-Khaliq, not dead. He vaguely remembers Nico telling him to stay away. He should've asked him what if any one of them is hurt?

But he didn't ask that so Joe makes an executive decision to touch Nico's face, feeling the pulse in his neck then cradling his head with both of his hands. Nico's stubble scratches his palms. His eyelashes flutter at the contact. But all Joe registers is how hot he feels to the touch.

"Nicolò," he says, gentler than the rising panic inside of him should have allowed, "Nicolò, you're burning up."

Nico's eyes move behind the closed eyelids. Someone is speaking to him, but he hears it through the fog. It's hot, and he aches all over. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton. He tries to speak but only manages a weak moan. 

"Nicolò, you have a fever. I'm calling the hospital, okay? I'm taking you to the hospital."

***

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm playing fast and loose on the exact lockdown timing and the development of pandemic policies that Italy actually enacted at the start of this year so the dates are not by any means accurate, although I'll try to convey the reaction and implications on our characters as realistically as possible. 
> 
> Thanks guys, for reading and sticking out with me till the end. Holler if you enjoy this, yes :D the angst is thickening but I promise you that we're heading to the fluff and comfort zone soon. Tell me want you want to see happening in the next chapters :D :D :D


	4. 1 March, 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do we do this? Will you keep me for the night?”
> 
> “I’ll do the test shortly, and it depends whether you feel comfortable being separated from your husband, or not,” answers Basti.
> 
> “My– my husb – what?”
> 
> Basti finally looks up. “Oh, pardon me, is it not correct? Do you prefer ‘partner’?”
> 
> Joe stares at him, mouth agape. 
> 
> “I thought congratulations are in order,” says Basti, as if that explains anything. “It says here that you’re married,” he taps his clipboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's exhausted in this chapter and things get lost in translation.

Joe is fluent in several languages. But once in a while, when he is extremely tired or distressed, he would misplace the word he is looking for in the many neatly shelved vocabularies in his brain. 

The word he is looking for is the Italian for ‘housemate’, which he needs to answer the paramedic’s question about his relationship with Nico. When he can’t find the word, he works around it with simpler words. “We live together,” he says, which will do just fine, even if the nature of their arrangement hasn’t been detailed out yet in the less-than 24 hours since he got acquainted with the man. They were going to share the house for at least two weeks before Joe found him slumped against the kitchen wall with a high fever. 

The paramedic nods and punches down the info onto his tablet. Another hands Joe a disposable mask and gloves, and ushers him inside the yellow water ambulance. Joe goes along and takes his seat as they buckle in Nico’s stretcher. An emergency care nurse is putting oxygen on Nico. 

Joe is struck by a sense of deja vu. He’s been here before, not too long ago, inside a water ambulance crewed by two paramedics, one nurse and one pilot, heading to Ospedale SS Giovanni e Paolo’s emergency watergate, the boat’s blue flashing lights and siren clearing its way along the canal. Only then, the person lying on the stretcher was not breathing, which somehow made the trip less urgent. Thankfully, Nico is breathing just fine by the look of it, even if his temperature reading is 39.2°C. 

He was conscious when Joe told him he’s calling the hospital. He made noises of protest, which Joe ignored because clearly, he had passed out before, while leaving the stove burning, no less. Joe dialled the 118 emergency water ambulance number. It said something when they asked if Joe knew if Nico had been in touch with someone with the new virus. He briefly wondered if the hospital is filling up with people with similar symptoms. 

After they said they’re dispatching a unit to take Nico, Joe hung up the phone and went to prepare Nico for the transport, finding his wallet and ID in his room, and, when he couldn’t find Nico’s coat, went upstairs to get his down jacket, scarf and socks, all of which he put on Nico with little resistance. Then he sat on the kitchen floor, not daring to move. Scialla and Zitto, the latter uncannily quiet, sat nearby. Minutes ticked by and Joe, thinking _what else what else what else_ could he do, called Basti, because it’s always good to have someone who knows you at the hospital. Basti didn’t pick up his call, so he left him a mildly panicked text detailing his predicament. 

The masked-up and suited paramedics arrived not long after with their stretcher, and efficiently strapped Nico in and wheeled him across the pavement to the nearest canal where the ambulance docked. Joe locked the house and followed. 

The siren stops when they reach the hospital. Its sudden absence is so jarring it snaps Joe out of his thoughts. From there, it’s a blur of brisk walking through the old part of the hospital, first through its long, centuries-old corridors with its arches, then past glass and metal doors into its newer, busier medical wing with its blinding white, thoroughly sterile-looking spaces that scream twenty-first-century medical establishment. 

Joe walks all the way with Nico, and unlike the last time he found himself in a similar situation, no one stops him from going further, right until they swap Nico’s stretcher with a corner bed in a small ward with three other empty beds; each separated from the other by plastic sheets that Joe has only seen in big-budget pandemic-themed Hollywood movies. 

This time, while some masked, scrubbed, and gloved people fuss over the person on the bed, someone also fusses over Joe. Seated a little away from Nico’s bed, Joe gets his temperature taken by a digital thermometer by a nurse. Seemingly satisfied by the reading, she hands Joe a tablet displaying a digital form with two tabs, one for him and another for Nico. She asks him to fill it out, telling him that a doctor will attend to them shortly. 

Joe didn’t do this last time. Last time, he signed his name as a witness in a supporting document for a death certificate. So he takes a strange, small comfort filling out the digital forms, first his and then Nico’s. He draws the information from Nico’s ID cards which he fished from his wallet, learning new things about his new landlord in the process – his date of birth, blood type, height, his address in Milan, his official designation in the hospital where he works – all the mundane, yet intimate details of his life. 

He wonders if Nico will hate him taking liberties with his particulars. Joe would not be comfortable with a stranger knowing such details about him had the situation been reversed. But it’s an emergency, Nico will just have to deal with it. 

He makes adjustments to the documents, though. He switches the address with Pino’s address, because that is where he would go home to when he is, inshallah, released from the hospital, right? And since he knows nothing about Nico’s next of kin, he filled out his own details as his emergency contact and Nico’s as his, because he is his new landlord, it’s just logic. 

Someone comes in to take the tablet away and hand Joe two identical forms. Now these, Joe has never seen before. They were travel declarations forms, asking where they have travelled in the past two weeks and whether they have recently been in contact with someone with the novel coronavirus. Joe fills out his and hesitates on Nico’s. But turns out, he has all the information he needs to fill it out too, so he does that, ticking most of the boxes in the Yes column. 

The nurse comes back to take the forms, and after that, they leave them alone. Nico appears to be sleeping after they gave him something. He is also hooked to an IV drip. 

Joe checks his email and finds that the Biennale is still in limbo and an invitation to connect on LinkedIn from art professor Dr Quynh Tran. He checks his message and finds a reply from Basti, saying that he is tied up and currently not on the island but will see him as soon as he can.

The hospital where they are in is quiet, which feels off considering the news he has been hearing about the virus’ spread in Italy in the past week. Also, no one kicks him out of Nico’s room, if anything, the nurse tells him he is not to wander before the doctor comes, and that he can use the empty bed next to Nico’s if he feels like he needs to lie down. He wonders if it’s because it’s a Saturday, or it’s Italy’s (in)famously lax culture, or both. 

_“It’s no use going to the hospital at this point. They don’t have the means to test me yet.”_

So Nico said. Joe wonders if, in a matter of hours, things will change. After all, look at what has happened to the Biennale in the last 48 hours. Joe should check his news digest, check on his team, call his sister Yashfa in Rotterdam, but he doesn’t have the energy to process anything anymore. So he pockets his phone and closes his eyes. 

***

Joe startles awake to a touch of a gloved hand on his shoulder. He looks up to find a masked face and a familiar pair of blue eyes. 

“Ciao, Joe,” he says. 

“Basti,” he rasps, rubbing his eyes. “Took you long enough,” he switches to French, as he wont to do with this doctor. 

“I should ask you to start calling me Doctor Le Livre here,” the doctor sighs, also switching to French. “Came as soon as I can, I’m sorry to see you back here again.”

“Maybe I’ll call you Doctor Booker,” Joe yawns. “What time is it?”

Basti checks his watch: “Almost 11pm.”

They’ve let Joe doze off for a bit. “They told me a doctor would see me and it was over two hours ago.”

“Did they? That was odd,” Basti says, checking his clipboard. “Did you, by any chance, ask for me to any of the admin nurses?” 

“I might have,” Joe stifles another yawn, glancing at Nico, who appears to be sleeping and in a hospital gown, still hooked to an IV drip, though he’s breathing without the oxygen. That has to be a good sign, at least?

“Right, then my apologies. They might have thought since you’re asking for me, it’s better to wait for me,” Basti pauses, reading what Joe assumes is a print out of his and Nico’s forms. “It’s a good sign when they do that, that means your stats aren’t life-threatening.”

Joe doesn’t know what to think of it. Sure it’s good news, but someone could have told him sooner instead of abandoning them there. “What now?” he asks, wondering if he can go home, or if he should whip out his insurance card and spend the night there. He hopes he can go home, he needs to feed the cats. 

“You both need to get tested for the virus,” Basti says, still reading his clipboard. “And you’re in luck because we just got a shipment of the swab kits, which we didn’t have this morning.” 

This ought to comfort Joe, but what it does is confirming his suspicion that they are currently in a developing situation that changes by the hour. It’s not just waiting for the other shoe to drop, it’s not knowing how many pairs of feet involved in the situation. ‘In luck’ is not how he would describe it, but Joe is nothing if not an optimist at heart. 

“ _D'accord_ ,” Joe says. “How do we do this? Will you keep me for the night?”

“I’ll do the test shortly, and it depends whether you feel comfortable being separated from your husband, or not,” answers Basti.

“My– my husb – what?”

Basti finally looks up. “Oh, pardon me, is it not correct? Do you prefer ‘partner’?”

Joe stares at him, mouth agape. 

“I thought congratulations are in order,” says Basti, as if that explains anything. “It says here that you’re married,” he taps his clipboard.

“ _Married_?” Joe squeaks, reaching for the clipboard. He would have remembered had he declared so. 

“Well, practically,” says Basti, letting Joe take the clipboard. “Since Italy stopped short of legalising same-sex marriage to not offend the church. Is it not marriage you were referring to when you stated _unione civile_?”

“I meant to say that we live together. No, I _did_ say we live together. I don’t know why they decided to put it that way here.” Joe traces his fingers over the printed out copy of his form, as if he can correct it that way. 

“Like domestic partnership? Because that’s what _unione civile_ means.”

“No, like, we share the same house, Basti,” Joe pinches the bridge of his nose. “Like –” he switches to English to pull the correct vocabulary. “–housemates.”

“Ah,” Basti says. “The peril of speaking too many languages. And here I was feeling both surprised that you rushed to get hitched and a little offended that you didn’t invite me to your wedding.”

“He’s Pino’s nephew. He inherits the house. He’s staying in that room you used to rent.” _And I’ve just known him for a little over 24 hours now_ , Joe adds silently, having depleted the energy to explain more. 

Basti raises his eyebrows. 

“Your new landlord, then?”

“Oui,” Joe says. 

Two seconds pass in silence before something clicks in Basti’s mind. “He’s _Nicky,_ ” he says. 

Joe grimaces. “Don’t. Something happened between him and Pino, and he goes by Nicolo now.”

Basti hums. 

Joe scratches his head. “I’d better annul our union now before he wakes up and finds out I’ve claimed his hand without his consent.”

Basti has the gall to actually chuckle. “Well, I’d advise you to do it on Monday.”

“Can’t the nurse do it now?”

“Joe, it’s Saturday – Sunday in just a few minutes. Telling whoever on the solo admin desk now will only earn you their Italian scorn. You don’t want that. And you’ll get them in trouble because by rights, if you’re not a spouse, you’re not supposed to be here _at all,_ they should have bundled you in plastic sheet and stored you in a different ward. They should not even have let you onboard the ambulance.”

Oh, Joe thinks, that’s why they let him stay. 

He sighs, defeated. 

“Ouai, you can stay married till Monday.”

“Shut up and swab me.”

***

During his thirty-three years on earth, Joe has made many questionable decisions to insert objects (random or otherwise) into the various cavities in his body. The covid nasal swab is probably one of the top five. By the end of, tears are leaking out Joe’s eyes, and he could have sworn that the swab almost scraped his brain. Basti thinks he’s being overly dramatic. 

Basti tells him that he should get the test result in three business days (“But give it a week, just in case.”) And in the meantime, since he is asymptomatic, he can go home to self-isolate. Nico, however, they will keep for a few days, since he was directly exposed to a known case and is fighting a fever. 

“If it’s any consolation, based on his stats and the information you provided of his job and his travel, I’m inclined to attribute his fever to exhaustion and dehydration,” says Basti, “that is, if he doesn’t suddenly develop a difficulty to breate or pneumonia,” he tacks on. Also, Nico still needs to clear a few rounds of tests before he can go home. 

“How bad is it out there?” Joe asks, shrugging his jacket on. 

“It’s difficult to say. We’re containing it in Veneto, but we’ll be very, very busy in the hospitals everywhere if the government doesn’t impose some sort of lockdown, that’s for sure.” Basti looks at Nico, but Joe can tell that his mind is elsewhere. 

“How are you holding up, Basti?” Joe asks, suddenly feeling guilty of not asking sooner. 

Basti’s eyes crinkle, “I’ve been through worse, you knew,” Joe hates that he can’t see all of his face to actually verify if his expression matches his words. “How are _you_?”

“The biennale might not be happening anymore so ask me again in a few days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Fill out your discharge form and go home and stay there, you look like you’re about to drop dead. I’ll update you on your test result as soon as I have it.”

Joe nods. “And uh, what about…?”

“I’ll make sure they update you on your accidental husband’s condition.”

“Landlord.”

“Muse,” Basti actually winks. 

Joe groans and takes his leave. 

***

The hospital is actually only twenty-minute-walk away from home, which is a little shorter than the time it takes to transport someone via the water ambulance, such is the magic of Venice. That being said, that twenty-minute walk through freezing, eerily quiet ancient city feels like it goes on forever. Its many canals have brewed out a chilly mist that plunges the temperature even further. Joe wishes he has his down jacket with him, which he realises he has left behind with Nico. 

Catch her at certain times of the day and season, and Venice could be yours alone. Joe read that in a brochure advertising an off-season holiday package once. It’s cheesy, but there is truth in it, which he has found time and time again, when it’s just after dawn when he walked home from Giardini after a particularly taxing day, or when he persuaded a fishing boat to take him to the main island at 3am from the outer isles after he missed the last commercial ferry. 

It strikes Joe that the place is not a stranger to plagues. In its centuries of existence, great plagues that emerge once every century must seem like a perennial event. It will be indifferent to it, and after the said plague has done its job culling the population, it will carry on. Joe could be walking not in 2020, but in 1920, or even 1629, and the story would be more or less the same. 

Physically, when he prises the front door open, he feels supremely exhausted and ready to hibernate in his bed. But the cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety that’s been feeding his brain just won’t quit. So he putters about the house, storing the forgotten groceries in Nico’s pantry and fridge, topping up the dry food in Zitto and Schialla’s bowls, checking his emails, chugging a carton of chocolate milk and devouring a bag of salted almonds because he missed lunch _and_ dinner but couldn’t muster enough brainpower to cook something. It’s only well past midnight when he manages to coax both cats to cuddle with him on his sofa that he actually falls asleep, hoping that March will be kinder. 

***

When Nico was six or seven, he fell from the treehouse in his maternal family’s orchard in Genoa after a scuffle with Niceto. It was spring, and the pear blossom tree was flowering, and Nico remembered the weightless sensation as he floated among the white petals before the ground rushed up and knocked the air and lights out of him. It was followed by a series of considerably less pleasant sensations: numbing pains, echoing sounds of heels and wheels in long corridors, the smell of antiseptics, blinding light, and zio’s large hands and zio’ familiar voice. 

This old memory bleeds into his most recent one as he struggle to wake up: stifling heat, shrill whistle, salty tears, biting wind, blue lights, feather-soft cocoon, cool and calloused hands and a stranger’s voice calling his name. It takes him a while to parse these and arrive at full consciousness. And with it comes a slew more of very present, less-than-pleasant sensations: his head feels groggy, his skin clammy and chafing against whatever material he is currently wearing, and there is a dull, throbbing pain somewhere on his wrist that he realises is an IV drip tube inserted into his skin. 

His vision gradually clears to reveal a white, sterile room. For a moment, Nico thinks he is back in Milan, at his workplace, on his usual schedule. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t he be on his feet instead of on the bed? Then he remembers that he is in Venice, at zio’s home, and zio's dead and it’s all rushing back: the meeting with his new tenant (Joe, a voice at the back of his head reminds him), the cats, the phone calls – _the_ _phone calls_! – the gloomy sky framed by the kitchen window. 

Something happened between then and now, several things probably, as Nico realises that he’s in a hospital as a patient. The throbbing inside his head intensifies when he tries to sit up, so he lies back down with a groan. 

Then he hears a rustle and someone peels back something, and he can see marginally more clearly. His bed is inside a plastic cocoon for some reason. That’s why everything looks rather blurry except for the masked nurse to come closer to check on him. 

“Good morning, signore,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so great,” he says. “May I have some water, please?”

When the nurse comes back with water and a thermometer, Nico feels so drowsy he’s ready to sleep some more. But he’s also eager to piece together his memory as soon as possible, so he asks her: “What happened?”

“Oh, you passed out and were brought here last night,” she says. “You were dehydrated, and you were running quite a fever –”

Nico is lying on his side, sipping through the straw. The water soothes his parched throat, and the pillow feels cool against his cheek, his eyelids feel heavy, he struggles to listen. 

“– but I see your fever’s gone down,” she continues, reading the number on the digital thermometer. “Your record shows that you travelled from Milan the day before yesterday and –”

_Surely, this is excessive?_ Nico probably only needs to sleep and self-isolate. 

“– husband – stayed the night – the doctor will –”

As Nico goes under again, one odd word sticks out in his mind.

_“Husband?”_

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter steers this fic into Sandra Bullock's 1995 romcom While You Were Sleeping territory and I ain't mad. Next week: more accidental husband shenanigans, and the actual quarantine at home. 
> 
> Gimme a shout out if you enjoy this. Tell me your theories and what you wish to see :*


End file.
